Wounds in War
by fieryashes91597
Summary: Snapshot during the Second Shinobi World War
1. Chapter 1

Needle and thread control. Sew the punctured lung back together. Next. Remove poison first, then repair liver, then the ribs. Next. No pulse, no time, move on. Next. Fractured skull. Stop bleeding, remove pressure on brain, repair skull. Next. There is always another body. She can't allow herself to see them as people. She cannot let herself break. It's just a body, not a person. It has to be...or else every glance would chip away a piece of her, the fragile part that couldn't be hardened by pressure and time, and soon there would be nothing left. She cannot break. No one could replace her.

There are chakra burns on her arms and hands from the constant, forced flow. It would be excruciating if her mind was clear enough to register the pain. Her arms feel like led and somehow manage to keep moving. Her head is heavy and fogged from severe chakra exhaustion and she is grateful for the hours of studying that allow her to heal without thought. She does not think about the sticky substance on her hands and in her hair. It has been days without sleep and long hours without an extra second to breath. She is shaking and heavy with exhaustion and chakra deprivation and she cannot stop. The dying keep coming and there is no one who can replace her.

They just keep coming, carried in from the battle in an endless procession. For every two set before her there are three more left on the battlefield. Some distant part of her debates if she'd rather be out there, fighting and killing, instead of in here, fighting and healing. It is simpler out there somehow. But she knows this is were she is needed (no one can replace her), no matter how much she'd rather be fighting beside, instead of above, her comrades. No, not comrades. They're bodies, just bodies. Broken bodies she can fix. Well, most of them. And then they will go back out there to break all over again and maybe she won't be able to fix them a second time. Bodies are so fragile.

If she had allowed herself to look at their faces, if she had allowed them to be people, she would have recognized this broken mass before her. They went to the same casino on Fridays and he enjoyed winning against her abysmal luck. He would jokingly thank her for her contribution towards his daughter's education fund... But she doesn't see faces or people, and it's his third time on her table today. He has run out of luck. No pulse. No chakra flow. Next.

But then there's a warm hand stopping hers and turning her around and a familiar mess of white hair and red lines of blood—no, paint, not blood—on his cheeks and she squints trying to see him through the haze. A shadow of panic, as much as her failing body can manage, grips her because he is one of the few people she could never see as just a body. She hasn't quite registered that he is standing beside her and not lying on her table and her hands automatically send chakra into his system, searching for the injury her glazed eyes can't see. There's nothing. He's fine and she can't help the wave of relief that buckles her already shaking knees. He's fine and he's there and he catches her.

He is saying something. She catches a few words - battle, sleep, blood, home - but she can't think of a scenario in which those things belong in the same sentence. She doesn't have the strength to question it when he begins to lead her away nor can she punch him when he picks her up and carries her. She is so tired and he is so warm so she forgets to stop herself from turning her face into his chest and breathing in his strength and _life_.

A few seconds, hours later and they're in her apartment. She vaguely registers the coating of dust and stale air. Has it really been that long since she's been home?

He lays down towels so her bloody clothes won't stain her bed, and she manages faint surprise at the thoughtful, domestic gesture. He lays her down and she sighs and melts into the strange softness of her bed. But her eyes are only closed for seconds before her vision is filled with red, faceless bodies. They flick by quickly, just long enough for her to see and do nothing, and there's a dark pile of flesh growing larger and larger in the distance. She jolts up, gasping, choking, eyes wide open and searching. Her hands are glowing uselessly, chakra burning more scars into her already damaged, blistering skin.

"Shhh, hime. It's ok. Don't worry. The battle is over. The hospital sent in a new wave of fresh medics to finish up. You need to rest now. It's ok to rest."

Even before his words fully make their way into her foggy mind, she feels herself relaxing. His voice is so sure and calm, and he has always been someone she can trust. A large hand smoothes back her hair as she lies back down. It's ok to rest.

"It's ok, hime. Sleep. I'm here." She believes him.

She wakes up ten hours later. Alone. She refuses to acknowledge any disappointment at that fact. There's a power bar and water bottle on her nightstand and a note saying he ran out for groceries. Apparently everything in her fridge is expired. She fights a smile at the doodle of a frog at the bottom in place of a signature. The windows have been opened, letting in a warm light and fresh air. The dust is gone and she wonders if he got any sleep himself between the battle, cleaning her apartment, and running errands. Since when did he get so responsible and domestic? She shivers at the empty feeling in the room and tells herself that it's because it feels emptier without the dust.

Not until after she finished her food and water does she realize she is still covered in blood. She's been wearing the same clothes for far longer than she'd like to think about, and she grimaces as the stale sweat, grime, and blood cause the fabric to stick unnaturally to her skin.

Clothes off and abandoned in the trash, Tsunade steps into her own shower for the first time in weeks. She stays under the calming spray far longer than she'd normally allow, reveling in the reviving warmth and deep cleansing. Focusing on the slide of water down her skin, which is finally running away clear instead of red, she doesn't let her mind wander, afraid of where it may go.

Suddenly, a loud knock sounds on the door, breaking her from her trance and causing her to reach for a kunai that's not there. "Tsunade? You ok? You've been in there a long time."

Shit. She hadn't heard him come back or felt his chakra signature (even though it was quite large and strangely he was doing nothing to hide it). It is common for shinobi, especially powerful ones, to hide their signature in order to go unnoticed. There is a subconscious need to hide—a defense mechanism even when at home. For someone with as much chakra as Jiraiya, he is a walking, flashing neon target if he doesn't hide his chakra. He was probably trying to make sure she noticed him... Damn, how long has she been standing there?

Shaking herself, she coughs, "Hmm yes I'm fine." Wow that didn't sound convincing at all.

After only a slight pause, he decides to let her be. "Ok I'm making breakfast. It will be ready soon so hurry up." She hears his steps retreating.

Quickly, she shuts off the water, dries herself, and throws on her comfiest, most civilian clothes before moving towards the kitchen. Somehow, she is still surprised to see him standing there. But there he is—a large man with crazy hair, back turned to her, in her largely unused kitchen, stirring something in a pan and wearing an apron. Where the hell did he get that thing anyway? It certainly isn't hers.

"Sit down, hime. I'm just about to serve it up." She sits down slowly, not removing her eyes from his broad shoulders, captivated by the easy strength and grace of his movements.

He turns towards her and suddenly she's back in herself, eyes turned down to look at the table, as he serves the food and takes a seat across from her. Her cheeks grow pink with embarrassment. She's not sure how to thank him...for carrying her home, for cleaning her apartment and buying her food and cooking and not taking advantage of her while she slept. For being alive. For staying. She's never been good with gratitude. She hates the way the words taste on her lips, almost as bitter as an apology.

Simply in order to do something with her hands, she pushes her wet hair out of her face and starts in on her food. A genius move really—she can't be expected to say something while she's eating. Reading her mind, he pushes the pepper towards her. She grabs it with a hum and continues with all the fervor of a guilty child trying to avoid his mother by looking busy elsewhere. She won't look at him.

For his part, Jiraiya lets her be until she runs out of distractions. But now the food is gone and her hands are twitching, clearly missing having something to do. "Tsunade. Look at me."

It's a demand. He's been patient and she's been stubborn, but it seems they've crossed some invisible threshold. She still can't bring herself to look though.

"Stop that."

He sounds angry. She has been unconsciously picking at the new, scabbing scars on her arms. She could heal them now that she has the energy and focus to control her chakra, but she won't. She doesn't trust how she'll react to that horribly familiar, essentially useless green glow. She stops but continues to stare firmly at her nails. She decides that she should paint them red; it'll hide the blood she can't seem to remove from under them.

"Fine." His voice is gruff with frustration or disappointment or both. "Well, I have to go. I have a mission. It's short, nothing too exciting. Just delivering a scroll to the daimyo. I guess I'll see you later."

And his back is to her again and he's walking away and the world is pure panic. Panic that he's leaving and he'll get hurt and he won't come back and she can't lose him too and she hasn't seen his eyes yet.

"Jiraiya! Wait! Please...I..." Her voice sounds steady and calm to the common ear, but he knows her, more than anyone, and he can hear the hysteria, the croaking half-sob. "Please come back."

Suddenly, finally, easily, she is looking in his eyes and they are so filled with warmth and honesty and relief and care and _life_. She doesn't think she can bear to look away now.

"I'll be back in five hours. I promise."

And she believes him.


	2. Chapter 2

He comes back as promised, and the time after that, and after that. In the end, she is the one who leaves one day and doesn't come back. He chases her for a while, but it is all too clear that she doesn't want to be found and he's lost enough in the past to not be too upset about losing again.

They've both been wounded by war. He just wears his scars better, even tattooing ever longer red tear streaks down his face. But she hates scars, meticulously healing her cuts to perfection and using a henge to hide the chakra burns and wrinkles she can't quite make disappear into flawless skin.

She has always been the proud, tragic princess and he'll always be the hopeless, dreaming toad...but there is no fairy tale ending in the works here. No magical kiss or happily ever after.

She'll waste her life running and losing, and he'll waste his hoping and failing. Their lives will be defined by festering regrets, suffocated dreams, and shattered glass. And empty saké bottles, of course. He'll die alone in a strange, weeping village, far away, at the hands of a former student. He will be covered in scars and missing a limb, and his last smile will highlight the wrinkles on his face. She will stand strong and aloof back in their home village—only able to cry for him alone, silently, in the dark where no one can see. With flawless skin, she won't look a day over twenty five. So, you see? There is no happy ending for the princess and the toad.

But he loved her and sometimes she loved him. Perhaps that is enough in the end.


End file.
